


Steve Rogers: Man Without a Country

by LuisVera



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, F/M, Magical Realism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Thriller, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 09:04:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20543591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuisVera/pseuds/LuisVera
Summary: War is Hell, and you can't escape Hell. Steve Rogers returns home believing he had escaped War, not realizing War was to follow him his whole life. He is Captain America, after all, he was born for the War and can hardly live without it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a look at what would happen if Steve eventually became disappointed with his role as a War hero, any comments are welcome.

Chapter 1  
Dismembered body parts flew around the air after the explosion: some soldiers were hit by   
their buddy's head or arm; the battlefield smelled like blood, but then again, what was a   
battlefield supposed to smell like if not blood? Their enemies, the Germans, the japs,   
whomever, they were closing in, in the horizon, they approached, they're an inhumane   
horde equipped with the best technology he'd ever seen, they were blowing up the boys, his   
friends, like they were confetti. Steve takes a moment to pause, holding tightly to his   
shield, wondering if this is all worth it, wondering if he'll ever finish fighting this war,   
wondering if he'll ever go home again. He will, he says to himself. He utters a silent prayer   
and then launches onto battle, the Germans and the japs can have all the equipment they   
want, they're no match for him, he is Captain America and he's here to fight, he's here to   
kill, there's no stopping him.  
The rage and frustration from seeing those leeches explode his friends into pieces fueled   
him, his shield crashed against the metal of their artillery, he threw it around casually   
destroying everything and everyone that stood on its way and then, loyally, it returned onto   
his hand when he called it. He launched onto battle bare-handed as his shield takes care of   
a few things, he gets lost in the moment, for a few seconds, he's not a man, he's not a kid   
from Brooklyn, he's not the skinny guy that everyone picked on and then suddenly became   
a symbol for Truth and Justice, no, he was an animal. Moments later, he looks around,   
where there were tanks and other machines there's only tears of metal, where there were   
Nazis there are only corpses, a lot of them, he's surrounded by corpses, he calls his shield   
onto him and his dutiful weapon responds. His mission is accomplished.  
Yet, even his fellow soldiers look at him strangely, they won't admit it, but they do, it   
doesn't matter if they're French or Brits or Americans, they all look at him like he's not   
human, like his rampage was only conveniently directed at evil men, but they look at him   
as if suspecting he may one day turn on them. There was this one fellow in particular,   
blonde, blue eyes, maybe he was from Belgium or something but it didn't matter, what   
mattered is that he looked at him in such an incredulous and hateful fashion that it was a   
stare Steve could never rip from his soul.  
He wakes up in his bed, screaming. The nightmares that are just memories are the worst   
kind of nightmares; his wife opens her small eyes and calmly puts a hand in his chest:  
-What was it now? Paris? Berlin?  
He shakes his head, unable to speak; he can't remember the city of his latest nightmare.  
-Lay down darling, go back to sleep- she says, her voice is always so calmed, her accent   
makes it even more soothing. Honest to God Steve didn't know what he'd do without   
Peggy; he didn't know what he'd without Peggy after the war.  
He wakes up that morning around 8 o'clock, which is a little late for him but it is fine considering he had barely slept for a large chunk of the night, from the bed, he can smell   
Peggy making breakfast for the two of them, they always eat breakfast together.  
He stands up from the bed and looks through his window: all the cars, the teenagers going   
around, the music, the cafes, this was America, this was his home, this was what he killed   
and almost died for. And it was worth it.  
Unlike the vast majority of his fellow soldiers who came back home and married their   
girlfriends, Steve didn't have any children, he loved children very much but apparently,   
thanks to the Serum, he couldn't have them, Steve resents it with every bit of his self, he   
glances at the shield that leans flatly against the wall, right behind the bed, his shield, it's   
perhaps the only friend Steve has left…after what happened to Bucky.  
The memories begin to flood Steve's mind again and it's like he is back in the nightmare,   
but just as he is about to get carried away by the winds of his guilt, he hears a familiar voice   
rescuing him from despair:  
-Honey, breakfast's ready!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve makes a choice, he has to speak up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright folks here starts the chain of shit hitting the fan.

Steve and Peggy eat their breakfast peacefully, each one had sweet bread, fried eggs and   
bacon. Peggy had a moderate ratio, while Steve ate like a truckload. He munched on his   
food, still not fully recovering from his dream, Peggy, who knew him much too well,   
opened her lips and thus broke the silence that floated in the room:  
-What was it, darling?  
Steve stared at her numbly for a few seconds that felt like hours and then, with his heart on   
his sleeve and feeling the cold winds of death, he said:  
-Berlin, the time I took on the tanks.  
-But what's wrong? You won.  
-I did but- he lowered his head –You should have seen their faces-  
-The German's faces? - She asked, confused.  
-No, the other soldiers- he paused, taking a sip from his coffee –They just, they wouldn't   
stop staring, I think they hated me-  
-You saved their lives! For Pete's sake! - She almost shouted.  
-That's true, they just didn't seem to care-  
Peggy's small hand hovered across the table and held on to Steve's, and she then spoke:  
-I love you, dear. You're a wonderful husband and a dutiful citizen; you're not a monster-  
Steve stood up to kiss her, she giggled.  
-Darling! We're having breakfast! - She said between kisses. But Steve didn't care, they   
made out for some time and only then did Steve return to his food, they then began to   
speak about the movies.  
-Are you serious you haven't heard about The Third Man? - Peggy inquired, flabbergasted.  
-Nope- Steve said in a rather simpleton tone, finally having some peace.  
-It's the latest Orson Welles piece! - There was something in her voice that couldn't   
possibly be ok.  
-Who? -  
Peggy made a face as if she wanted to murder Steve, her eyes piercing him like daggers, he   
chuckled lightly, enjoying the way she looked angry.  
-You know that I'm more of a books person-  
Peggy sipped her tea and frowned –Oh, don't you remind me- Their apartment was small,   
they could have a bigger one but Steve liked it here, in his old neighborhood (it was also the   
place where Bucky had grown up, but that was a secret he kept to himself), the fact of the   
matter was that Steve had the place plagued with books, books from every author you   
could possibly find in English (even if translated into it), everything from Homer and Virgil   
to Faulkner, Hawthorne and Borges, Peggy hated having to stumble into a pile of books   
every time she had to move more than three inches, but she had gotten used to it.  
Steve again chuckled –You're cute when you're angry-  
-Then I'll become adorable.  
A few minutes later, while Peggy was doing the dishes (she did on the morning, he did on   
the noon and at night they split it up) he returned to the room and took his typewriter.   
When he came back from the war, he pursued his dream job as a journalist, and of course   
everybody in America was happy to know the Captain's take on every topic under the sun,   
after all, he was their hero, right? The New York Times gave him a daily column called The   
Captain Speaks, a little corny but the publicists said it would work.   
He decided to write about…marriage, no, he had done that before. Freedom, why not? He did that plenty of times and it always worked, he was Captain America, after all. No, he was   
in no mood to celebrate the things he loved, he felt an urge inside, a voice that wanted to   
scream, a desperate plea. He would write about War, War was Hell, he hated War. He   
didn't want any young man in America to go what he went through; he didn't want any   
young man in America to end up like Bucky.   
Leaning on his typewriter, Steve's fingers moved automatically and axiomatically, he was   
fueled by the horrors of his nightmares, he was fueled by the love of his country, he was   
fueled, as he put it in the piece "…by a healthy skepticism (induced by too much reading) of   
the principle that all the problems that befall mankind can be quickly fixed by a simple act   
of mass slaughter". He remembered almost puking when he heard the President was   
planning to intervene in the Korean War (which was another lovechild of WWII), he   
echoed the words of a Senator when he proclaimed that the President, plunging the nation   
into war without so much as bothering to ask Congress, had surrendered the country to the   
"Omnivorous claws of the UN, forcing our country to function as Police Department of the   
entire Milky Way; the Grand Inquisitor of the World, forever turning every stone known to   
make sure there is no evil lurking." The piece, with the incendiary name "Mr. Truman's   
War" was probably not too appropriate for his otherwise wholesome column, besides, at   
almost three thousand words, it was too lengthy to fit into the space he was normally given   
on the Times.   
With that in mind, he decided to just sell it to one of the zillion magazines that were sold   
within his area. He didn't care much about the pay, he just wanted to get his words out, he   
wanted the country to hear his message, and anything signed with his name would be read   
by everybody.  
It was then when doubt stroke him and pierced his liver; should he publish this under his   
name? Wouldn't he get in trouble? He had a wife to care for and didn't really like the idea   
of being on any kind of trouble himself. He was retired now, a veteran, he had left the War   
behind in order to live a quiet life, or so he said to himself; "But the thing is" he thought to   
himself "That war will not leave me alone" It was true, War pursued him wherever he was,   
the cemetery was now full of men who had been his friends, who had been his brothers in   
arms, and he was not going to let the same thing happen to their little brothers (and in   
some cases, their sons) he was not going to let this country go into another war, he had to   
end it, now, only he could, he was Captain America, and America needed him.  
With that grandiose entitlement in mind, Steve took out a Cuban cigar and began to smoke   
it carelessly while he took a paper sheet and a pencil, sketching a caricature of Harry   
Truman with a musket. Simple, crude and unsubtle, perhaps, but it was the perfect   
companion to his article. Peggy walked into the rum and saw her husband drawing sketch   
after sketch, each one more mocking; Peggy arched her eyebrow graciously and inquired:  
-What are you doing, love?  
-My duty.


End file.
